Tales from My Welsh Village

By Ken Smith

A novel spinning warm and very amusing tall tales about larger-than-life characters in a small village in the South Wales Valleys in the 1960s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Y Lolfa
• Release date: Jul 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781784616373

Ken Smith

Ken Smith has had a lifelong love of wilderness and exploration. As a young man, he worked as a farm hand and labourer, untill 1975 when he moved to Yukon, Canada. On his return, Ken took to wandering across the British Isles, settling at Treig to resolve his grief and build a new life. Will Millard is a writer, BBC presenter, public speaker and expedition leader. Born and brought up in the Fens, he presents remote Anthropology and Adventure series for BBC Two, and a series on Rivers, Urban Exploration and History for BBC Wales. In 2019 his series My Year with the Tribe won the Realscreen award for Travel and Exploration. His first book The Old Man and the Sand Eel follows his wild journey across Britain in pursuit of a fishing record. He has also ghosted many projects and written for numerous national and international magazines and newspapers, including BBC News, Daily Telegraph, Vice, Guardian, Geographical and Outer Edge.

Book preview

Foreword

This story, for the most part, is fiction loosely based on some of the local characters in the village of Rhigos, where I grew up from the age of eight until I emigrated to Canada in 1975.

Over the years, for whatever reason, I had made notes about events as they happened and thought that one day I would put them all together as a personal memory of days long ago.

Then one day, I was at home following surgery after an accident at work and was reading through a local newspaper.

I came across an article regarding some night courses on creative writing and I thought briefly about my old notes. On the spur of the moment, I got into my car and drove about 30 miles to the college in Edmonton to find out a bit more about the classes. I was asked to write a chapter on any subject and submit it that day, it being the last day for submissions. Driving home, I thought again about my scribbling, and wrote a chapter about the Plough Inn. I made a return journey to the college and dropped off my submission at the tutor’s office.

I had just returned home when the phone rang and a voice said: This is Scot Morrison. I am the creative writing course tutor and I would like you to sign up right away! Which I did. In all I must have driven more than 180 miles that day.

Later, I found myself in a class of 13 people, 12 of whom were published authors. What a revelation and an introduction into the secret world of creative writing.

This book is the inspiration for and result of those classes.

Grateful thanks:

To my wife, Avril, for her patience and understanding about the amount of time spent alone while I disappeared for hours on end scribbling and burning the midnight oil.

To Jen Llywelyn for her diligence in editing this book.

To the staff at Y Lolfa for all their work in the production of the book.

Also to Fred Howells’ daughters, Sheila and June, for their support and advice during the writing of the book.

Ken Smith

July 2018

1 – Fred ‘Rats’ Howells

The late afternoon sun was casting long shadows on the north face of the mountain behind the Globe Inn as Fred downed his final pint of the day and took his leave from the smoke-filled main bar of the pub. He was a little unsteady, which was not surprising considering he had been drinking heavily for the past four days, while spending most of his afternoons betting on the unlikely performance of his selection of racehorses. He stumbled slightly as he went down the uneven slope to the nearby bus stop.

The proximity of the Globe Inn to the bus stop, a mere few yards, had little to do with the reason he had spent most of the day in that particular pub. No, the overriding attraction was the off-track betting shop operated by a well-known turf accountant from the large neighbouring town of Merthyr Tydfil. For many years this building, prior to it being turned into a betting shop, had been the storage area for copious amounts of coal, fuel for the many fireplaces scattered throughout the inn. But with the advent of natural gas into the area, central heating was now readily available, and the building had fallen rapidly into a sorry state of disrepair. It was during this period that off-track betting was introduced, and with it individually licensed betting shops. No time had been lost in turning the dilapidated lean-to building into a veritable gold mine. Hard-earned money had been taken with consummate ease from the likes of Fred and his cronies as their selections, based on ‘form’, failed, with monotonous regularity, to win.

Needless to say, the landlord of the inn also saw benefit from the close ties with the betting shop, via the constant ebb and flow of patrons wishing to quench their thirst, and witness the results of their individual endeavours on the large colour TV strategically perched above the main bar.

There also appeared to be a direct correlation between the patrons winning or losing and the health of the cash till. If a punter won a few pounds or so he was more or less obliged to buy a beer or two for those in his company who had supported his winning choice in horseflesh. If, on the other hand, he lost his money, then his compatriots would invariably buy him a pint and commiserate with him on his latest misfortune. In either event, or so it appeared, the landlord saw a profit.

Fred, who failed in his selections more times than he cared to think about, unfortunately didn’t receive any tangible benefit from either side of the equation. This being the case, he had resigned himself to accept a minor role in life’s endless stream of ups and downs.

However, on this particular weekend he had gained some measure of success on his choice of horses, and was in a happy frame of mind as he strolled the extra few yards to the bus stop. He looked as unkempt as usual, tops of his wellies turned down the regulation few inches, coarse grey working trousers, thick woollen shirt, a nondescript jacket from some long forgotten suit, and his favourite flat chequered ratting cap perched jauntily at an angle to one side of his head. He was a man who had never been overweight throughout his adult life, remaining within a pound or two of ten and a half stone. While broad-shouldered, he was a sparely-built individual, standing just a shade over medium height. His features, in general, were sort of flattish and slightly elongated, complimented by a fairly long sharp nose; this was set between keen bright blue eyes, which did not miss a thing if it was to his advantage; the pupils were mere pinpoints. To complete the picture, his hair, at this time in his life, was grey and slightly grizzled, and invariably cropped close to his skull (or as some wag unkindly remarked to his face one day, It’s right down to the bluddy wood, Fred).

Lost in thought, or so it would appear to the casual observer, he leaned against the stone wall of the open bus shelter which adjoined the garden wall of the Globe Inn, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his trousers.

Eventually the dull roar of the nearby river to his right broke into whatever he had been thinking about, and he sauntered in the direction of the sound to peer over the wall at the small stream, now in full flood after days of heavy rain. This stream marked the boundary between the two parishes as it wended its way through the village of Waun-gron.

Waun-gron had been a thriving industrial ironworks town of some 40,000 people during the early part of the nineteenth century, a bustling town when the now capital of the country had been nothing more than a large riverside village with a large wharf at the mouth of the river Taff, from which steamships, laden with iron and coal, the products of Waun-gron’s industry, had sailed to distant markets throughout the world. Now, though, Waun-gron was nothing more than a sprawling village of less than 5,000 souls. The industry had long gone, leaving in its place a sense of dereliction.

Fred stared down at the swirling waters and in his mind’s eye traced its wandering banks back up the mountainside to its source, a cluster of tiny springs that thrust their way forcefully through the grey hillside shale, ice cold and sweet to the taste. ‘Damn,’ he thought, ‘I’ve drunk my fill from there so many times while walking the mountain.’ His eyes swept across the darkening green backdrop as the shadows lengthened and he grinned to himself. Aye, he mused out loud. If I could have a penny for every drop I’ve tasted, I would be a bluddy rich man by now.

Turning his back on the wall and his memories, he rested his elbows between the upright stones that formed a jagged tooth-like line across the length of the road bridge. He lifted one knee and propped the sole of his wellington boot against the wall, affording him some measure of support as he studied each passer-by with interest. He was hopeful of seeing someone who knew him, and who would perhaps congratulate him when given the good news of his good fortune on the horses. Fred had been raised not more than a few hundred yards from where he was standing, and as he nodded in passing acknowledgement to each one as they walked by, he received a similar friendly nod in return.

Fred cast his mind back over the last three (or was it four?) days since he had been home, and he thought fleetingly of Annie, his long-suffering wife of many years. I ’spect she’ll be off with me again. Ahhh! What the ’ell, she’s been off enough before, he muttered under his breath, grinning slightly as he remembered all too vividly some of their more infamous confrontations, which had ended in a full-scale shouting match out on the street for all the world to witness. As usually happened on those occasions, he had done exactly as he had planned to do anyway, even explaining his reasons to anyone who was prepared to listen.

2 – A shock for Fred

Annie, Fred’s wife, weaving slightly from fatigue and the mortal shame which had just been heaped on her frail shoulders, made her way slowly up the steep hill towards the shabby looking house they rented on a weekly basis from the local District Council. Like all the other council houses, it wasn’t much of a place but it was, with the few sticks of furniture she possessed, a place to call home.

She had struggled, with the tenacity of a bull terrier, for many years against ever-mounting odds, to keep a roof over their heads, food on the table and more importantly her family together... that is, until today. The shopkeeper’s refusal had been the final blow to whatever remnants of pride she had clung to.

It wasn’t unusual in those parts to run up a bill in Shop John; the current owner of the shop, being of a generous nature, was seen by many as a sort of public benefactor and part-time philanthropist. He would, when things became difficult for some of his customers through unemployment or some other form of distress, allow them to have what they needed from his shop on credit, sometimes carrying their debt for months on end until the situation improved for them. He, in the style of the old company shops, knew he had a captive market and would eventually receive his due, paid in full, and his customer’s integrity intact.

Today, being Friday morning, Annie had gone down the hill to Shop John for a few essentials to add to their ever-increasing debt. There were never any luxuries in her additions to the bill: a loaf of bread, some cheese, butter and a bit of bacon to boil (it went further that way). Arriving at the counter with her selections, she had placed them on the glass counter in front of him.

But today, the grocer, looking more than a little embarrassed, gently, politely and apologetically refused any more credit until such time that part or all of the existing debt had been squared away.

There was nothing Annie could say in defence. The grocer was a local man, born and bred in the village. He knew well enough all about Fred’s activities in the village and beyond. There was no way in the world that anyone could blame him for making a stand on the issue to perhaps force Fred to accept some of his rightful responsibilities.

At that moment, Annie felt totally humiliated; all this, even though he had spoken very quietly, was in front of a shop full of people who knew her. Devastated, she stared at the items on the glass counter top through tear-filled eyes. Then, her thin shoulders sagging with the shame of it all, she turned away, pushing blindly past the other customers to the partly open door. She felt a surge of anger, not because of the refusal by the grocer, but because that bluddy Fred was off somewhere again, enjoying himself on money that was desperately needed to clear their debts at Shop John.

She sat in the chair beside the empty fireplace and stared vacantly into its depths, warm tears of unhappiness trickling slowly down the lines in her sunken cheeks. She took a crumpled cigarette packet from the pocket in her apron and pushed the flap through the sleeve. Absentmindedly she glanced down, tears for an instant distorting her vision: ‘Just two left,’ she thought, ‘and no money for anything else. A few cigarettes and little else is all I seem to get out of life, and now I can’t have that either.’

An arm looped around Annie’s bony shoulder and she looked up, startled. Lost in her despair she hadn’t heard anyone come into the house. Her youngest daughter Joann knelt beside her, making soft comforting sounds as she hugged her mother close to her. Annie felt slightly embarrassed, because she was not one to show much in the way of affection, having suffered rebuttal for so many years at the hands of Fred.

It’s okay, love, she murmured. I’m all right now, honest. She wiped the tears from her lined face with the back of her hand. She stood up and stared distantly across the mountainside through the curtain-less windows. So what shall I do now then? she muttered softly, without realising her resolve was gaining strength.

What was that, Mam? Joann asked, looking up into her mother’s face.

Without replying to her question, she turned towards the young girl. Do you think you can ride a bike all the way to Waun-gron? You will have to be very careful, mind, because the main road will be very busy at this time of the day. P’raps you should ride on the path, not the road. Waun-gron was about five miles away and was the village where Annie and Fred had first set up home, and where their five children had been born.

I think so, Mam. Why then?

Never mind the why at the moment. Here’s what I want you to do for me. Her voice was suddenly strong with an inner determination. Go round to Mrs Thomas’s and ask if you can borrow Susie’s bike for a while. Then, I want you to ride down to our Raymond’s in Waun-gron and ask him to please come up here with his van. He promised to help me if ever I was in trouble.

3 – Fred’s return to an empty house

Fred pushed himself upright as his bus turned the corner. Dismissing all thoughts of past battles of will, and the one he was certain would be waiting for him the moment he stepped through the back door, he joined the other passengers waiting patiently to board the bus. In preparation he counted out, from a handful of small change, the exact fare for the five-mile journey to Rhyd-y-groes. Flopping down in the first available seat, he closed his eyes and thought again about the past few days. A secret smile played along the edge of his thin lips as he recounted in his mind all the fun he had had, not forgetting the tally of his ‘winnings’. ‘Damn,’ he thought, with more than a little satisfaction, ‘it looks as if my luck has begun to change for the better.’ He let out a sigh of contentment as he felt in his pocket for the few remaining crisp banknotes left over from this particular run of good fortune. And I’ve still got a bit left over too, he murmured. Huh? he said in surprise.

The portly woman in the seat beside him repeated her question. I said: What did you say?

It was nothing. I was just talking to myself, that’s all, Fred replied a bit sheepishly. At that moment he felt reluctant, which was unusual for him, to explain his pleasant thoughts to a complete stranger.

That’s a very bad habit you have, if you ask me, she said with a toss of her head. You could end up in Bridgend, she added, nodding her head again in confirmation. Bridgend is a town in the southern part of the county where a large psychiatric hospital is situated.

Hey, missus! Now you just hold on there, he said with a grin. There’s nothing wrong with my bluddy head. Anyway, this is where I get off. Rising quickly from his seat before she could add anything else, he made his way to the exit. Glancing back up the aisle he saw the woman still staring at him so with a broad grin he raised his cap to her and she quickly looked away.

He sat for a while on the wide stone window sill of Shop John and watched the bus until it disappeared over the rise in the direction of the Plough Inn. ‘Hmm,’ he thought, ‘it’s a bit late in the day to go up there for a few pints and anyway, that old so-and-so of a landlord might not even be there yet.’ Trefor, the landlord of the Plough Inn, one of Fred’s favourite haunts (especially when he was short of ready money), divided his duties in the pub with running the family farm in the next parish and occasionally he would be forced by circumstances beyond his control to bend the licensing laws just enough to accommodate whichever task required his attention the most.

I’ll go up there later, Fred decided, rising from the sill, concluding that it might be better if he put in an appearance at home first. He stretched with his arms out wide and turned for home, half yawning as he made his way up the hill to his house. Arriving at the wrought-iron gate, he paused with his hand on the latch and quickly surveyed the windows facing him; they in turn stared vacantly back at him, showing no sign of life from within. He sucked in a deep breath and squared his shoulders, preparing for the inevitable fray he knew would be waiting as he walked down the path at the side of the house. Entering the back yard he took a quick look into the kennels; the dogs, recognising him in an instant, set up a clamour of barking and tail wagging in welcome. He grinned fondly at them, brushing his hand along the top of pens, and made a mental note that they still had food and water in their bowls. He pulled a face. I wonder if I will get the same welcome in there, he mused, glancing towards the closed back door.

He stood with his back to the house surveying the mountains that reared their mass steeply to the sky behind the council houses. Damn, he murmured softly, it’s lovely up here, except for the bluddy winters. Lots of fresh air and open space.

He loved the mountains and the sense of freedom they gave him, a freedom in complete contrast to the daily claustrophobic existence of his working life as a rat catcher, deep underground in the dust-filled tunnels of the local coal mines. He sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, savouring the cool freshness of the mountain air. At that particular moment he was in no hurry to face the inevitable wrath of Annie’s sharp tongue and felt he needed to postpone the encounter for as long as humanly possible.

Without moving, he looked over the thick privet hedge at Tŷ Cwm farm and the rushing waters of the small river that bisected the green fields some 300 feet below, down the steep slope dotted with clumps of bright yellow gorse.

‘Finally,’ he thought, ‘the moment of truth has arrived.’ With a visible effort, he dragged himself away from the view and turned towards the house, muttering to himself as he did so, I wonder what gems she’ll have on her bluddy tongue this time.

He opened the back door stealthily, pausing for an instant to listen for any sound, then called out in a normal tone, Helloo! It’s meee. I’m home! He waited a moment or two then called out louder. Annie! It’s me! I’m home! He still stood on the doorstep, one hand on the door handle, head and shoulders through the half open door, just in case he had to avoid some swiftly flying object or flee in a hurry, as he listened intently for a caustic response to his breezy greeting.

There was no reply. He frowned, staring down at the red bare earthenware tiled floor of the tiny kitchen. He was still unsure of what sort of welcome awaited him when he noticed the old coloured raffia mat which had always graced the centre of the room was not there. His brow furrowed in puzzlement as he stepped away from the doorway and glanced down the garden, noting the empty clothes line. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he had fully expected to see the old mat hanging there.

That’s funny, he muttered, feeling a brief surge of annoyance that things were not turning out exactly as he had anticipated. Mentally, he had prepared himself for an argument and at this point there was nothing forthcoming.

‘Something is not quite right here,’ he thought. Taking a ring of keys from his pocket, he opened the garden shed. Poking his head around the edge of the door, he quickly cast his eyes over the shelves and the wooden bench in front of the single window, not knowing exactly what he expected to see wrong. Funny, he repeated, returning to the house. Entering, he shouted again, Hello! It’s me! The uneasiness he had felt earlier was much stronger now that he was fully inside the house. This place sounds more empty than usual, he muttered. As he turned to close the back door he discovered that the ancient electric stove, which for years had stood in the alcove, slightly behind and to the right of the back door, had disappeared.

Bluddy ’ell. What the ’ell has been going on here, then? he shouted, as he ran through into the living room and found it completely bare. Where’s my bluddy sideboard, then? he yelled, running on into the front room. Empty! he shouted. Bluddy empty. We’ve been robbed, that’s what! Anger was quickly replacing any feeling of remorse or apology he might have felt or had for his wife. In his mind, at that moment, she was to be held totally responsible of taking care of things while he was away from the home. Where was she when all this happened? Annie! Where the ’ell are you woman? He dashed from room to room again, as if he couldn’t believe the evidence of his own eyes. Suddenly, he stopped in mid-stride as a singular thought struck him.

Hey! Wait a bluddy minute here. She can’t have gone off and left me, can she? He groaned in disbelief, his jaw hanging open. He ran outside, slamming the door behind him. He jumped over the low fence separating his house from next door and began rapping frantically on the neighbour’s front door.

Mrs Thomas! Mrs Thomas! Quick, open the door, please, he shouted, his mouth close to the door panels. The front door opened slowly and a frail-looking, grey-haired woman peered at him from the gloom of the hallway. Jinny Thomas, Fred’s neighbour’s wife, was barely five feet tall and her thin pinched features and pale complexion bore the ravages of a hard life raising seven children on a farm labourer’s wages.

Oh, hello, Fred, she said in soft tones, staring up into his agitated features. What can I do for you today, then?

Well, to tell you the truth of the matter, Mrs Thomas. I think we’ve been robbed or something. Did you, by any chance, see anything or anyone around our house today? I need to know right away if you have, so I can run down to the post office to call the police to come up as soon as they can. His words came tumbling out one on top if the other, his eyes wide in agitation.

Now, now, Fred, Mrs Thomas said calmly, stepping forward and patting his arm gently. I don’t think you need to bother the police about this, or anyone else for that matter.

Fred stared at her, momentarily puzzled by her softly spoken words. And why the ’ell not? he demanded.

I think you know well enough why, Fred, without me saying another word. Her words were still softly intoned but at the same time were slightly admonishing as she added. We haven’t lived next door to you all these years without hearing and seeing a few things, mind. She clasped her work worn hands in front of her, almost but not quite, as a symbol of compassion.

Aw, Mrs Thomas, fach. You don’t think she ’ave left me, do you? He had a pained expression on his face as he uttered the very thought that had occurred to him earlier, but which he had been too stubborn and proud to admit until this very moment.

Well, it certainly looks that way, Fred, doesn’t it? Let me tell you what I saw today and you can judge for yourself the truth of it, okay? There was a large blue van outside your house today and I saw a couple of chaps loading a lot of stuff into it. Bits of furniture and stuff like that. Your Annie was there too and she got into the van with them. Then they left and that’s the last I saw of them. I was a bit surprised, mind: after all, we’ve been neighbours for a good many years now, and she left without even saying goodbye to me or anyone else, as far as I know anyway.

Well, I go to ’ell. And there’s me thinking my luck had changed for the better.

Visibly shaken by her revelation he sat down on the edge of the doorstep, arms resting across his knees as he studied his fingernails and the backs of his gnarled hands as if seeking a solution to his problems there. That bluddy Raymond, he muttered, half to himself.

Would you like a nice cup of tea, Fred? The kettle has just boiled. Come on in, mun. A cup of tea will do you the world of good. Come on, she coaxed, not unsympathetically. Fred looked up over his shoulder at the little woman as she stepped back and held the door open a little wider.

Um, yes, please, if you’re sure it’s no bother. I could do with a bit of a lift, I can tell you. He rose to his feet and walked behind her down the gloomy hallway into the warmth of the cosy back kitchen. Without being asked, he seated himself at the small table, looking more than a little dejected at this turn of events, while Mrs Thomas busied herself getting cups and saucers ready on the snow-white table cloth. She poured the boiling water onto a heaped spoonful of loose tea leaves, stirring them rapidly, as if to make them brew all the quicker.

It was quiet in the warmth of the kitchen. Later, as Jinny poured the tea, she asked Fred what he intended doing about his wife’s sudden and hurried departure. Are you going to go and look for her, Fred? Ask her to come home, p’raps? Do you think she would come home if you did?

I dunno, he said glumly, his bottom lip pushed out as he thought about it. She’s a very stubborn woman, see, an’ if she’s taken into her head to go this far, there’s no telling what she’ll do now. To be truthful, I can’t see her ever coming back here. In my mind I’m pretty sure of that now. What do you think?

Well, what if you went to her and said you were sorry or something? she pressed. P’raps she’d see things in a different light. P’raps she’d take you and Colin in, wherever she is?

Oh aye, sure to be, Fred said somewhat disparagingly, then he added with bitter emphasis. Listen. She wouldn’t even dream of doing something like that. Oh no, Mrs Thomas. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that she has been planning this for a while now.

Colin was Fred and Annie’s eldest son, who had had little choice but to return home to his parents after his own marriage failed. Colin’s wife, who had refused to put up with him joining his father in gallivanting all over the place, day and night, on the flimsiest of pretexts, had left him for the stability of a more responsible older man and had moved away from the district.

Colin was, in general, much like his father. Although slightly taller, his shoulders were narrower and he had his mother’s narrow pinched features, with long blond hair swept back from a high forehead and plastered down with any Brilliantine he could lay his hands on; goodness knows why, because he invariably sported a flat cloth cap pulled down firmly to his ears. In every other way he was the double of his father, and just like Fred he was in his element when he was in the outdoors. He worked in the same coal mine as his father, but was a trained mechanic, skilled in the repair of anything mechanical underground. Fred and Colin went everywhere together and did most things as one, except playing cards, in which Fred had not the slightest interest. Apart from that, the two men were seen more as firm friends than father and son. They called themselves ‘the Partners’.

Fred sipped slowly at the hot liquid, going back in his mind over the years they had spent raising their five children.

True, it hadn’t been easy, but things weren’t all that bad either, and we had managed. I was working regular, but the money was small. Annie was home all the time then, and that little house in Waun-gron sparkled and the brass-work was polished til it gleamed like gold.

Aye, then me and our Colin going after rabbits down in Carmarthen with George and the boys, coming home with a sackful of rabbits to sell around the village for little more than the price of a cartridge. We had a lovely garden there too, beautiful black dirt you could grow anything in, not like the bluddy rubbish we’ve got up here, half clay and full of stones. What the ’ell happened to us.

Fred’s thoughts turned to Eva, his first-born child. She’s been married for quite a few years now. They do say that time flies and it does, by damn. I wonder if she knew anything about all this nonsense while I was staying there these past few days? I wonder what the others will have to say about it, especially when they think about all the arguments me and Annie have had in front of them. Nothing, I suppose. Well, our Roland has his own life now with a wife and children, without me pestering him about his mother leaving me in the lurch.

Mentally he shrugged as his thoughts turned to Shirley, his middle daughter, who was at present out in America working for some rich family as a nanny; the lucky so-and-so to be away from all this, living it up in the sunshine. His lips twitched into a wry smile. So, that only leaves our Joann to worry about. What age is she now? 14? I suppose she left with her mother too.

He replaced the empty cup carefully in the centre of the saucer and said: I’m sorry to bother you like this, Mrs Thomas, but I wonder if you can remember something for me. Did you, by any chance, see our Joann go with them in the van? See, I wouldn’t want her to come home to an empty house like I did. It wouldn’t be right, you know, for that to happen.

Jinny Thomas stared at him for a moment or two, slightly taken aback, until she realised that somewhere deep inside he still had a little spark of decency and wasn’t quite the rascal that everyone thought he was. Well, yes I did, Fred. Now that I come to think of it, I remember she came out of the house carrying a couple of small cases. Then she got into the van with one of the chaps that were helping your wife. Yes, that was it. It was a big dark blue van.

From your description that sounds like our Ray’s van from Waun-gron, Fred grunted. He leaned on his elbow at the table, forehead resting on the palm of his hand as he stared unseeing at the fine lines in the white tablecloth. It was quite obvious that his thoughts were elsewhere at that particular moment.

Mrs Thomas attempted to raise him from his reverie. Hey, Fred! How about another cup of tea? I’m sure it will make you feel a lot better. C’mon.

He looked up with a weak grin. Aye, I suppose I could at that. I have to thank you, Mrs Thomas, for your kindness in my moment of trouble. He sighed heavily, as if all the woes in the world had suddenly descended on his shoulders alone.

She pursed her lips and proceeded to busy herself about the kitchen, effectively ignoring Fred. She was in no mood to commiserate or otherwise with him regarding Annie’s sudden departure. She wouldn’t tell him as much, unless pushed, but she had seen enough of his antics over the years to believe that his wife had no doubt done the right thing this day. ‘P’raps this will shake a bit of sense into him,’ she thought, glancing quickly at him and then away from his sorry expression, but feeling little sympathy for his present predicament.

Suddenly, as if coming to a momentous decision, Fred picked up the cup of tea and drained it, gulping down the hot fluid without batting an eyelid. Well, Mrs Thomas, thanks again for the tea, it was great. Now, I had better go and take a closer look at what she has left behind. Just wait until our Colin comes home from work. He’ll be tampin’ about today’s nonsense, that’s a certainty.

I don’t think so, Fred. She studied his features shrewdly and added, "And, to be quite honest with you, Fred, if truth be known, I don’t think that you are all that aggrieved about it either." She gave a disapproving lift to her chin as she spoke.

Fred stood sideways on the doorstep, looking first at his accuser then out into the street and back again, his features breaking slowly into a lopsided grin. Well, we’ll just have to wait for the outcome of that, won’t we, Mrs Thomas? Thanks a lot for the information, though. She pursed her lips tightly to prevent herself adding a few more barbs of her own, then nodding briefly, she closed the door on his retreating figure.

Fred stood for a few moments on the front step of his house before fishing in his pocket for his key ring. He opened the door and went in, closing it carefully behind him. He leaned with his back against the door in the darkness as he listened to the overwhelming silence of the